


As You Wish

by Drakanin



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, FAHC, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Oneshot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakanin/pseuds/Drakanin
Summary: Jon stops by a flower shop to get an apology bouquet for his boss. There, he meets a man of apparently few words and plenty of sleight of hand tricks. He finds himself swept off his feet, helplessly and deeply in love -- but soon Jon learns the hard way that no relationship is without trouble.





	As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, it's time to revive Risingwood. It's a good ship.

 

Two Green Thumbs hunkered on a small street off the big bustling one Jon’s workplace resided on. It was a timid flower shop with brown brick walls unassuming, but it overflowed with perfume and flora. More importantly, it was Jon’s boss’s favorite flower shop.

Jon jogged to it on his lunch break and approached it out of breath. He stared up at the golden letters spelling out the shop’s name above the door, huffing as people pushed past him. He took one last starting breath and strode past spilling lavender and ivy through the open door.

Inside was cozy. If there was space enough for a table, a table there was. Tables carried pots of plants of every kind, different vases, and knickknacks for cute displays. The walls in the back were refrigerators with clear doors revealing stored flowers organized by color and type. In the back on the left wall was the counter where employees usually waited with green aprons.

“Hello!” greeted a short, stocky young man with a bald head and trim brown beard behind the counter. “Welcome to Two Green Thumbs. Can we help you?”

“Yes, in fact,” Jon huffed. He hurried up to the counter and slammed both hands onto its surface, leaning forward. The man—the name stitched into his apron read “Jeremy”—seemed completely unperturbed by Jon’s harried manner, and merely blinked. “I need a bouquet that says ‘I fucked up big time and I’m sorry.’”

“Ooh, an apology bouquet. We can definitely do that. For a man, woman, or other?”

“Man,” Jon said. He tapped his fingers on the counter. “I don’t care how much, but I need it stat.”

“Of course,” said Jeremy. He leaned to the side to look over Jon’s shoulder. “Can you help him out, big guy?”

Jon heard a footstep right behind him, soft on the wood floor. He nearly jumped out of his skin, goosebumps rising on his arms as he whirled around to face the tall silent man he had not noticed before. Jon hunkered against the counter, but the man was probably about his height, give or take a couple inches. His eyes were a pale blue, holding a sort of clarity that enraptured Jon.

“As you wish,” murmured the man.

The man pulled back, and Jon clutched at his racing heart. Jeremy cackled. “That never gets old!”

“Jesus fuck,” Jon breathed. The man had broad shoulders, a short honey blond beard, and hair swept back from a large forehead. Jon caught a glimpse of the name “Ryan” on his green apron before he turned towards the fridges in the back.

Jon crept up behind Ryan, watching him open fridge doors and pluck flowers from their friends. He matched purple hyacinth flowers with pink geranium, then completed the bouquet with small white flowers and leafy fillers. As he gathered, Jon noticed Ryan’s fingers and the back of his hands had white scars dancing across his skin. Jon pointed to a hand.

“How did you get those?” he asked lightly.

Ryan hesitated, then cast a sidelong glare at Jon—barely even turned his head. It was positively icy, and Jon shivered and put up his hands. “Okay, alright. I understand. I have to have level five friendship to unlock that piece of backstory.”

Ryan chuckled and turned his attention back to the flowers. Jon breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his shoulders. Murderous bear man was _not_ going to slice him open tonight.

Ryan carried the bouquet to the counter, and Jeremy tapped on the cash register. “Would you like it in a vase? It’s an extra ten dollars.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jon said, flapping his hand. Ryan leaned down and retrieved a round plastic vase from below the counter. Jon was mesmerized as Ryan snipped the stems of the flowers and arranged them in the vase, fluffing out the leaves and shifting them around to look visually pleasing. That done, he tied a sheer purple ribbon also stored under the counter, then got a tiny watering can from the back room and filled the vase.

Jeremy coughed, and Jon jumped. “I said, is that cash or credit?”

“Credit,” Jon said automatically. He barely glanced at the price as he dug out his card and thrust it into Jeremy’s hand. Jeremy swiped it and handed it back when the transaction went through.

Jeremy nudged the vase towards the edge of the counter. Jon realized with a start that Ryan was no longer behind the counter. How could such a large man be so sneaky?

“Thanks for stopping by!” Jeremy said cheerfully.

“Thank you,” Jon said honestly, gathering the vase up. “My boss should love this.”

“Good luck!” Jeremy called as Jon headed towards the exit.

Jon was almost free of the shop when he felt someone tap his shoulder. He whirled around, heart threatening to leap out his throat. Ryan had snuck up on him _again_. Jon opened his mouth to snap, but then Ryan winked. He flicked his hands with a flourish, and a long-stemmed rose appeared in his hands, its velvety petals curled up tight with just a bit of red peeking out the top. Ryan presented it with a bow.

Jon’s cheeks felt like they were set on fire. He pressed his lips together, snatched the rose, and spun on his heel to march out. He could hear Ryan chuckling and Jeremy roaring with laughter behind him. The sound haunted Jon as he hurried away from the shop, and he did not pause or slow until he reached his office building.

It was only when he enclosed alone in the elevator that he adjusted the vase in his arms and brought the closed rose up and lightly touched it to his nose. He could not smell it, but the petals tickled his skin. He smiled shyly, the blush rising once more to his cheeks.

He could almost forget his boss was mad at him.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Jon had nearly forgotten about the guy who gave him a flower, busy as he was at work, but he needed another bouquet. And, of course, since his boss had loved the flowers from Two Green Thumbs, back he went.

Jon was in a lot less of a rush this time. He entered the shop in the early morning, just minutes after it purportedly opened. He scanned the shop as he entered, the back of his neck prickling. The bald man—Jeremy, he remembered—was back behind the counter. Another man with dark messy hair, drooping tired eyes, and heavily tattooed hands examined the flowers on display, plucking dead leaves and tucking them into the pocket of his green apron.

“Oh hey!” called Jeremy, giving Jon a little wave from the register. “Just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“O-oh,” said Jon. He ran his fingers through his hair. “You uh, remember me?”

“Sure!” Jeremy said. “Shoulder length black hair, blue eyes, crooked smile…”

“ _Crooked?_ ” Jon repeated, hand darting up to cover his mouth.

“Oh no!” Jeremy said, lurching as if to catch Jon from falling. “I didn’t mean it negatively at all! It suits you.”

“Oh.” Jon’s heart fluttered with his sigh. He rubbed his mouth, then let his hand fall to his side. “Listen, um, I need a small bouquet. Something to show condolences to a coworker—her cat died the other day…”

Breath hot on his ear. A thrill shivered down his spine. “As you wish.”

Jon shrieked and leapt away from the man who had just appeared at his shoulder. He clutched at his heart through his shirt, feeling as though he had just run a mile. Jeremy wheezed, and the man chuckled.

“Ryan!” snapped the man with the tired eyes. He had turned from the flowers to put his fists on his hips and glare at Ryan. “Don’t go terrifying our good customers.”

Ryan grinned at Jon as he slid past him towards the flowers deeper into the store. Jeremy caught his breath and wiped at his eyes. “Oh, sorry, Geoff. I saw him sneaking up behind, and I couldn’t resist… This is the second time!”

Geoff rolled his eyes. He strode over to Jon and put a heavy hand on Jon’s shoulder, giving him a friendly pat. “Sorry about him,” he said. “This batch is on the house.”

Jon’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Oh no, I’m—I’m happy to pay…!”

Geoff thumped him on the back. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, alright? It’s my treat, since Ryan decided to be a dick today.”

“O-okay.”

“How about some lilies?” Geoff suggested, steering Jon towards the back where Ryan was examining the flowers. “That’s pretty popular for mourning.”

Ryan snorted. “I don’t think lilies would be good for someone mourning a cat.”

“Oh!” Jon snapped, harsher than he intended. “So you _do_ say things other than _Princess Bride_ shit!”

Ryan just laughed and plucked some white carnation blooms from a fridge.

Geoff left Jon in the care of Ryan and disappeared into the room behind the counter. Jon watched Ryan bundle different white flowers to match the carnations, and even threw some small blue flowers for a splash of color. At the counter, he wrapped the stems in paper and reached below the counter for ribbon.

“Can you make the ribbon pink?” Jon said suddenly, leaning on the counter. “It’s her favorite color.”

Ryan quirked his eyebrow as he glanced up, his hands barely pausing. “As you wish,” he growled, smirking. Jon shivered. This guy was weird.

Ryan tied a pink ribbon around the stems and paper with a neat bow. Jon noticed at his nose was just slightly crooked. His nails were trimmed short and had dirt underneath.

Ryan lifted the bouquet with one hand, then held it out to Jon. When Jon went for it, Ryan yanked it back, a sly smile tugging at his lips. He flipped his free hand up, a tiny sprig of a buttercup bloom appearing in his fingers. He reached across the counter and, with a brief pause to allow Jon time to shrink away if desired, tucked the yellow flower behind Jon’s ear.

Jon’s body seemed to forget how to function. He stared at Ryan, feeling his face grow hotter and hotter. Ryan handed over the small white bouquet, and Jon grabbed it with both hands before heading out of the store, his legs stiff and moving robotically.

What was _with_ this guy?

“Come again soon!” Jeremy called after him.

* * *

 

Jon next saw Ryan as he walked down the street a few days later during lunch. He spotted Ryan leaning against the side of the building on the corner of the busy street and the flower shop’s street. Ryan had his head down as he tapped on his phone. He still wore a green apron, meaning he was probably still on duty—or maybe had just left.

Jon tucked some of his hair behind his ear, hesitated, then approached before he could change his mind. He had honestly been thinking about this flower shop guy constantly for the past few days, and he wasn’t sure when another opportunity would arise. He was intrigued—and with the fresh air and bright sun, felt a little impulsive.

“Hey,” Jon said, ducking a little to try and catch Ryan’s eye. “Princess Bride!”

Ryan looked up at the nickname, and when he recognized Jon, he grinned, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, hello there,” he said. “You really must work nearby, then, huh?”

“Aha, yeah, a couple blocks that way,” Jon said, waving his hand in his office’s general direction. “Why’d you think I was near?”

Ryan shrugged and glanced at his phone again. Was he expecting a call or text? “You came to the shop twice in two weeks. Just surmised, based off of the timing.”

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense,” Jon said. “So, uh, what brings you to the corner?”

“I’m waiting for someone,” Ryan said, tucking his phone into the pocket of his jeans. He adjusted his apron to hang straight again. “But it looks like he’s a no-show for now. You on a lunch break?”

“Yeah I was heading to my favorite nearby place.” Jon pointed down the street. “That café there has great healthy sandwiches.” His heart suddenly raced as he got an idea. Something about this man just… made him feel brave. “Care to join me?”

Ryan smirked. “Ah, so my bribes of flowers are working.”

Jon laughed. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked back down the street. “So is that a yes?”

Ryan chuckled. “I have to wait for my guy still,” he said. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. “Tonight? No—no plans except watching Netflix.”

“How about dinner then?” Ryan reached for Jon’s face, and he instinctively flinched. But Ryan just reached for his ear, then flicked his hand to make it seem like he pulled something out of it. He held a small origami flower, clearly made of basic white printer paper—probably nicked from the flower shop. Ryan held it in front of Jon with a sly grin, until Jon realized he should take it.

Jon’s face felt like a space heater. He carefully unfolded the flower to reveal a phone number scrawled across it’s inside. “Were you just keeping this on you?” Jon asked incredulously.

“Shoot me a text,” Ryan said. “Let me know where you want to eat, and I’ll make a reservation if they take them.”

“O-okay,” Jon stammered. “That’s a lot of choice you’re putting on me.”

Ryan just grinned and winked. “Just pick one of your favorite places. I’m not picky.”

Jon nodded. He kind of wished his blush would fade, but with it came an exciting rush that threatened to make him dizzy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so forward with someone—or when someone had last been so forward with him. It was a new feeling, and he relished it, even with all the fresh anxiety it brought along. Was he saying the right things? Was he making an utter fool of himself? Was Ryan _actually_ interested? But no. He wasn’t going to let an opportunity like this slip away.

“You got it. I’ll see you tonight.”

* * *

 

Jon almost didn’t text the number. Over the course of the afternoon, he typed out a text, only to delete it in a fit of anxiety. He had felt so bold and forward in Ryan’s presence, but back at his cubicle, he couldn’t make his thumb tap send.

Just before four o’clock, a bouquet of roses was delivered to his desk, dropped off by a woman with a reddish-brown bob and a hideous tropical shirt worn under her green apron. The roses were pink and white and red, thirteen in total and swamped in green leaves in their tall vase. Jon jumped when she set the vase down with a heavy thump; he had not noticed her approach.

“Hi?” Jon said.

“Delivery for the princess bride,” said the woman. Her voice was deeper than Jon expected, but pleasant. “AKA, Jon.”

Jon’s face flushed. His coworker in the next cubicle over had snorted.

“Thanks, uh…” Jon glanced at the name stitched into her apron. “Jack.”

“I think you know who they’re from,” she added, raising an eyebrow.

Jon sighed. “Yes, yes. Thank you. I’ll text him.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth curled upwards. “He’ll be happy about that.”

As Jack started walking away, Jon groaned and put his face in his hands. “I’m too easily bought,” he muttered.

His coworker laughed.

* * *

 

Jon did text Ryan and got him to agree to a sit-down restaurant that was casual enough it didn’t accept reservations for parties smaller than six. Ryan offered to pick him up, to which Jon agreed, but such a decision made his coworker demand he text her pictures of the license plate and his driver’s license card.

“Sure, Mariel,” Jon droned.

“I’m serious,” she said. “If he turns out to be a serial killer or some kidnapper creep, I can give the info to the cops. And if he refuses to that, take an Uber or something.”

“Okay, I get it,” Jon said, more empathetically this time. “I’ll do that.”

Ryan agreed to the photos, with just a slight hesitation. Jon wasn’t sure what that hesitation meant, but he hoped Ryan was just confused by the request, or had a particularly ugly license photo.

Since it was Friday, there was a bit of a wait to get a table. But the evening was calm and pleasant, so they hung out on the sidewalk until they were called in. Jon found Ryan easy to talk to, and they had a surprising amount in common. They were both into video games and loved animals. The interests they didn’t have in common, the other found it fascinating to hear about. Jon went on about his favorite movies, and Ryan knew a surprising amount about knives and blades, like some sort of medieval enthusiast.

Halfway through dinner, Jon lightly touched Ryan’s hand that was resting next to his plate. “Do I get to know what some of these scars are now?” he asked, almost jokingly. “Have I leveled up my friendship enough?”

Ryan laughed, but his hand slipped under the table and out of sight. “Thorns,” he said.

“ _No_ ,” Jon breathed. “You lie.”

“And asshole co-workers,” Ryan added.

Jon recalled Jeremy. “Oh, yeah, you know, that makes sense.”

They were at dinner for over two hours. Jon couldn’t believe how good a time he was having. When was the last time he had hit it off so well with someone? He and Ryan _clicked_. He was almost mournful when Ryan offered to drive him home; he didn’t want the dinner to end.

The car ride back was dark and intimate. The radio didn’t play, so they filled the space with their voices. Jon found himself sharing his anxiety, his nerves and fear of people—of situations like this. Ryan talked about his fear of death, the knowledge that any day could be his last.

“I almost didn’t text you earlier,” Jon admitted.

“I know.”

“Not because of anything like…!”

“I know.” Ryan glanced away from the road just long enough to smile at Jon. His heart thrummed against his ribcage. Surely this feeling of closeness was an illusion of the car, of the blue night pressing down around them, but he wanted so badly to believe in it.

They neared Jon’s apartment building, and Jon directed Ryan to where he could park—Ryan wanted to walk Jon to his front door, which required a legitimate parking spot. Ryan parked his car on a side street, and they walked side by side back to Jon’s apartment building. A few steps led up to a small landing. A light above the door illuminated the landing like a spotlight. Jon turned to face his date.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he murmured.

“Me, too,” Ryan said. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

They were inches apart. Jon could feel the heat radiating off of Ryan’s skin. He found himself staring at Ryan’s lips, framed by a short sandy beard, his heart pounding in his ears. He made no attempt to enter his apartment building, and Ryan made no attempt to walk back to his car.

Then Ryan nudged Jon’s chin up with a finger and pressed his lips to Jon’s. Jon let his eyelids drift shut, leaning heavily into the kiss and just letting himself enjoy the feeling. It was… nice. Chaste and polite. And ended too soon. They pulled apart, and Jon noticed a lovely shade of pink in Ryan’s face.

Ryan cleared his throat and took a step back. “Was that… fine?” he asked.

Jon stared, not comprehending at first. “What—yes!”

“Oh!” A nervous giggle escaped his throat as he scuffed his heel. “That’s good… I realize I should have asked first…”

“Oh stop,” Jon snickered. “You’re making me swoon.”

Ryan laughed.

“Would you…?” Jon bit his lip. _Was he really about to do this?_ “Would you like to come up?”

The pink deepened. “If you’ll have me.”

Jon grabbed Ryan’s hand before he could change his mind and led him into his apartment building. Up the stairs, through his apartment’s door. Jon locked it again behind them, his thoughts going a million miles a minute. This was the most awkward, daring, stupid…

Ryan didn’t even wait for Jon to give him a tour. He shoved Jon against the wall next to his front door and kissed him hard. Jon held him there with arms around his neck, a thrill running across his skin. This was _not_ chaste, _not_ polite, but it was _very_ nice. They broke for air, and Jon tilted his head back and moaned as Ryan’s lips found his neck.

“Should—should we be doing this?” Jon asked. He felt teeth on the sensitive skin, and he shivered with pleasurable heat. “On the—the first date?”

Ryan straightened to look Jon in the eye. His fingers threaded through Jon’s hair, and Jon could appreciate the clarity he saw in the pale blue. “Do you want it?” he growled.

Jon bit his lip. Every inch of his body craved Ryan’s touch. His fingers curled across Ryan’s back, bunching up his soft shirt. “I—I dunno. It’s just—so soon… I don’t want people to think I’m— _easy_.”

“Life is fleeting,” Ryan said softly. “If you want it, take it. Don’t let arbitrary expectations of when and how things _should_ happen stop you. But if that’s what you wish, then it will be. So tell me. Do you want it?”

Ryan dipped his head back down to brush his lips against Jon’s neck again. Jon sighed. Normally he waited for a couple dates, but something about this man…

“Give me all you got,” Jon whispered.

Ryan’s breath burned his skin. “As you wish.”

* * *

 

Jon woke the next morning to sun slanting across his bed and making the back of his eyelids red, meaning he had slept in to around midday. He sighed, running his fingers over his soft sheets as he dozed in the warm sunlight. Rose petals from his bouquet, crushed and velvety, still littered the mattress, and curled under his hands. Remembering last night brought a blush to his cheeks, and he stretched and opened his eyes.

The spot next to him was empty. Horror struck Jon like an icicle to the heart. The spot was cold under his hand.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned. _This was why he didn’t have sex on the first date!_ Used, then left to wake up alone. Shame washed over him. Had he been manipulated into a one-night stand?

Pots and pans clattered in his kitchen, followed by swearing. Jon’s heart raced, and he leapt out of bed. He stopped only to pull his boxers back on before creeping up to his bedroom door and easing it open.

Ryan was in his kitchen, wearing his t-shirt and baggy jeans from yesterday and setting a skillet on the stove. Despite Jon’s care, Ryan must have heard the door open, for he turned around and beamed.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you up?”

Jon shook his head and swallowed. “I thought you had snuck out.”

Ryan’s shoulders sagged. “No, no, I… Aw, sorry, Jon. I was hoping to surprise you with breakfast. I guess I took too long getting the layout of your kitchen.”

Jon blinked. “Post-first date, and you’re already making me breakfast. Wow.”

“Well, trying to,” Ryan said. “Who wouldn’t?”

Jon resisted the urge to nervously giggle. “Careful. You might make me fall in love,” he said, letting himself smile. “Hold on one sec. Let me throw a shirt on and I’ll come help.”

Ryan beamed, relief plain on his expression. Jon shut the door between them again and hummed a tune to himself as he picked out a random pair of sweatpants and t-shirt. He’d have to take a shower later, he noted as he pulled his hair back into a bun. But for now, there was an attractive and hungry man in his kitchen.

Ryan stayed for a couple hours past a breakfast of pancakes and bacon. They sipped coffee on Jon’s couch as a movie played on the TV, and Jon couldn’t believe how lucky he seemed to have gotten. He was curled up against a man who had bribed him with flowers, and he was amused by that thought. The silence was comfortable—after all the talking of yesterday evening, it was equally pleasant to just share each other’s company in the warmth of Jon’s home. Jon felt good about this; if this wasn’t a good start, he didn’t know what was. Maybe it would burn out fast, but he decided he would worry about that later, and just enjoy the now.

Then Ryan got a text, and he cursed softly. “I have to go,” he said. “The boss is calling.”

“Aw man,” Jon whined. “You seem to work a lot.”

A beat. _Why a beat?_ Should he have said that? “You could say that. I enjoy it, but sometimes I get called back a lot.”

“Just don’t ghost on me,” Jon said. Ryan shifted and planted a kiss on his lips.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

 

Later that day, Jon sent Ryan an _I miss you already_ text. He almost didn’t send it, but he added an emoticon with a stuck out tongue and played it off joking. Ryan didn’t reply right away, but Jon wasn’t worried about that; he didn’t expect Ryan to respond while he was working.

Ryan didn’t reply to Jon’s text until late at night. A simple but apt _miss u too_.

_Can I see you tomorrow?_

_I have to be at work for most of tomorrow. Lunch on Monday?_

_It’s a date!_

Jon went to bed then and buried his face in his pillow. A warm and fuzzy feeling spread deep in his core. He felt like a kid again, giddy and infatuated. A cute weirdo _liked_ him and swept him up in a flood of emotions, and Jon was just content to surf.

The next day, Jon decided to surprise Ryan at the shop. He went in the early afternoon and took a stroll. It would take much longer to walk, but the sun was pleasant and the wind was the perfect cool.

When he got there, the shop was completely deserted except for a woman with long, dyed red hair. She leaned heavily on the counter next to the cashier, watching a video on her phone with her hand propping her chin up. She looked up when Jon entered and reluctantly paused her video and straightened. Her green apron read “Lindsay.”

“Can I help you?”

Jon glanced around. No one seemed to be hiding… Had he lied about being here? _Day two and they were at the lying stage?_ “I was, er, hoping to see Ryan…?”

Lindsay frowned, then her eyes widened. “Oh! You’re the guy! One sec.” She went to the door behind the counter and yanked it open. “Yo! Ryan! Your princess bride is here.”

Heat rose to Jon’s cheeks. He got a glimpse of the back room and saw several people sitting around a round table, a duffel bag in the middle. But a glimpse was all he got, because Ryan appeared to block the view, and Lindsay slipped into the room behind him and shut the door. Ryan wasn’t wearing his green apron, and he strode over to Jon immediately.

“Hey,” he said. He gripped Jon’s arms gently, his expression serious. “What are you doing here?”

Jon stared at a spot on Ryan’s collar. His shirt was a solid navy blue—a good color for him. “I wanted to—I thought I’d surprise you… Should I not have?”

Ryan chuckled and glanced down, pink rising to his cheeks. “No, no, you’re—you’re fine. That’s sweet.” He closed the gap between them to kiss Jon’s lips, and Jon melted under his touch. When Ryan pulled back, he said, “Just give me a little warning next time you visit the shop, okay? I’m not—sometimes I’m not so good with surprises.”

“Okay,” Jon agreed, still a little light-headed. _Breathe, you idiot!_ He wanted another kiss, but Ryan just stroked his cheek and tucked some of his hair behind his ear.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch,” Ryan said, holding Jon’s gaze. “I’ve got some stuff I still gotta do here and I’m not going to be able to give you any attention. Okay?”

“As you wish,” Jon muttered. “I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow.

Ryan patted his cheek and beamed before stepping back and heading once more into the room behind the counter. Jon didn’t try to peek in again, but instead just left. He had some errands to do anyway…

He didn’t realize until he got home that Ryan had placed a forget-me-not behind his ear.

* * *

 

The next month, Jon dared call the best one of his life so far. Ryan seemed fond of buying Jon gifts, from decadent chocolates to a new lens for his camera to a fresh hot coffee or tea on random mornings at work. Jon worried about the cost, but Ryan assured him he knew his budget. Jon did not have the funds to give back gifts of equal monetary value, but he made up for it by finding excursions for them. From a trip to the movie theater to a visit to a renaissance faire on the outskirts of the city, or even just taking advantage of a museum’s free day, Ryan was more than happy to go. Ecstatic, even.

Starting from the third week, Jon almost said “I love you” several times. It wanted to slip out, wanted to roll off his tongue like a skier flying off a jump. He caught himself each time. He thought the relationship started _fast_ , then that would be like… jumping to hyperspace. He felt it; his body begged him to say it. But he wasn’t ready to hear it back—or to even hear himself say it. It was a responsibility, a commitment, and he wasn’t even sure if Ryan would stick around for more than a month or two.

So he focused on enjoying Ryan’s company and his conversation and his touch, and he guarded his tongue for now.

One Thursday, Jon realized he had to go to the bank. He had no plans for after work, and Ryan was called away to his own work, so he made the mental note to stop by to move some money around.

The end of the day came thankfully quickly, and as soon as the clock hit five, he stood and grabbed his bag, a brown leather messenger one. Mariel glanced over their cubical divider.

“You’re in a hurry,” she noted. “Got an exciting date tonight?”

Jon shook his head. “Gotta run to the bank before it gets too busy.”

Mariel made a face. The time between most jobs ending for the day and the bank closing in the evening was short and crowded.

“Good luck.”

Jon took the stairs. The elevator _might_ have been faster, for all he had to descend, but with everyone rushing to the elevator now, it might take a long time. He pushed past businessmen thronging the main lobby of the skyscraper and took to the sidewalk at a light jog. For all his rush, he got to the bank fifteen minutes later, and the line was already massive. He groaned and glanced around for the line that appeared shortest.

He stood in line, intent on his phone for some time. He watched the clock, so fifteen minutes felt like thirty. He felt like he only took a step or two up, and the line only got longer.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and it took a moment for him to realize that people were whispering. He turned back towards the door just as the screams started.

He barely registered the six men— _no, five men and a woman?_ —before one of them, a man in a gray wolf mask, fired a shotgun into the ceiling. Noise erupted around him, but the man’s husky, loud voice carried above the cacophony.

“I want everyone down on the ground!” he shouted. “Fork over your phones! I don’t want no pigs crashing the party, you hear?”

Jon ducked and shuffled back with the crowd. Panic rose from his chest in a fog straight to his senses. He barely felt the crowd jostle him, barely heard the noise for the pounding of his heart in his ears. The armed people all wore some sort of animal mask and a black Kevlar vest with a green rubber ducky painted on. Well—one man didn’t wear an animal head. The black skull hovered at the back, quietly surveying the scene with an uzi held easily in one hand, his other playing deftly with a throwing knife. The Fakes and their Vagabond. Los Santos’s most feared gang _here_ , and of course the creepiest motherfucker of them all was right at their back.

Jon glanced to the side. There was no way he could get to an exit door, but he wasn’t too far from the window. His hands shook and he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. If he could get out… Well, he didn’t know what he’d do, but it’d be something. He wouldn’t be here, and he could call for help.

The Fakes were scoping the crowd. Jon slipped behind someone and started edging towards the window, trying to keep his eyes on all the Fakes at once. They didn’t _seem_ to be paying him attention at the moment. He swallowed and glanced at the window. He could see the latch function—could he make it? He glanced back; the Fakes were beginning to force people to their knees, more and more of the crowd lowering to the ground. It was now or never.

“ _Hey! Stop!_ I’ll shoot!” cried the man in the wolf mask. Jon’s feet moved before he could tell them to. He sprinted for the window, not looking behind him, not listening to all the people screaming and begging him to stop. His gaze zeroed in on the window’s latch— _or maybe he should jump through it? Could he make it?_

The back of his shirt yanked him as though caught on something. He was spun around, a foot or two away from the window, and slammed into the wall next to it. He didn’t even have the chance to yelp before something sharp pressed into his neck, and he was looking into the black skull of the Vagabond.

“Please,” he whimpered. Shallow, rapid breaths shook his whole frame, making the knife at his throat tremble. A fist gripped the front of his shirt and pressed against his torso, holding him against the wall.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the Vagabond growled.

The Vagabond had pale blue eyes, the skin around them smeared with black face paint. They held a surprising amount of clarity, despite the wrinkles formed by anger. Jon’s breath rattled in his chest, and the world seemed to slow down. His hand seemed to lift on its own, slowly raised itself to touch the side of the skull mask, the rubber of its toothy grin bumpy under his fingertips. His lips parted in a whisper.

“As you wish…”

The response was barely audible—certainly not heard by any observer. But the Vagabond’s eyes widened, just a fraction, and Jon saw him tense up before the knife shoved against his throat, biting into his skin. Jon jerked back, gasped at the sudden increase in pressure and knocked his head against the stone wall. No attempt to kill (yet), but would probably leave a small cut.

Sirens blared outside, and the window started flashing red and blue. A megaphone made demands, and the Vagabond glanced over his shoulder at his crew, keeping his grip on Jon. The man in the chicken mask caught his eye and cursed.

“What the fuck! They shouldn’t be here yet, even if someone _did_ manage to get a call off!”

“We can still grab some…” the wolf mask started.

“No way,” said the chicken mask. “We’re pulling out.”

As soon as the man in the chicken mask said that, the window next to Jon shattered. A few people in the crowd shrieked as a small metal canister punched its way through the glass, and three other windows broke as well. White smoke hissed out of the canisters, rapidly filling the bank lobby with fog. Jon started coughing, his eyes watering, and he heard others do the same. The Vagabond seemed unaffected, and glanced at the entrance. The front door shook and thundered.

“ _Move_ ,” roared the chicken mask.

Jon was hoisted forward and lifted off his feet. He sucked in a breath to scream, to demand _let me go, you fucker!_ But he only inhaled smoke, and his whole body wracked with coughs. He couldn’t even kick his captor as he was hauled out of the bank lobby. His heart beat so fast and painfully, his lungs burning, he thought he might keel over right then and there.

At some point, a bag was shoved over his head, and when he was set down again—in what must have been the back of a van, for the ground was hard and cold, and rumbled with the start of an engine—his hands were tied. By then, he had managed to clear his lungs enough of smoke to breathe again.

“Ryan,” he whispered. His throat scratched, and he doubled over. His hands would not stop shaking. He thought he might pass out for all his hyperventilating. “Please.”

“Shut up,” said the voice of the man in the chicken mask.

Jon curled up on his side and tried not to black out.

* * *

 

He wasn’t sure if he _did_ black out, but he must have, for he did not quite remember the transition from the van. Vaguely he was aware of being lifted again, of being bodily handled and laid on a bed. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he next came to.

The room was small and dark, with just a lamp on a small square table next to the bed to light it. With no windows, he had no way to orient himself or tell what time it was. His phone and wallet had been taken from him. The bed was basic, thin, and shoved into the back corner. The door was shut and in the middle of the opposite wall. The Vagabond leaned against the closed door, his arms crossed and his mask staring at Jon.

Jon didn’t say anything. He sat on the bed and pulled his knees into the chest and stared at the mattress. The man he had been dating was one of the most wanted criminals in the city, and now had taken him hostage and locked him in a small room.

There was a long-stemmed, pure white rose at the foot of the bed.

He didn’t know what to think. The idea was incomprehensible in his mind. The Vagabond was always painted as ruthless, a silent killer who reveled in watching his opponents bleed. Ryan doted on his partner with gifts and small touches, made flowers appear with a flick of the wrist, and listened intently to him talk on and on about a movie he watched recently. The two images stood side by side in his mind and wouldn’t mesh.

But then again…

Some things made sense. His sleight of hand. The odd hours he worked the flower shop. The scars on his hands that surely weren’t caused by thorns and asshole coworkers.

He had been ready to say “I love you.”

Ryan killed people for a living.

Heat burned in Jon’s throat. He weighed the pros and the cons. With Ryan, he felt comfortable. Reckless. Happy.   _The things he does don’t affect me_. No, what was he thinking!? Those were real people whose lives were on the line, whose money got stolen. _Mostly corporations and big banks… The people who died were usually other gang members, anyway._ Fuck. It was so ridiculous, he wanted to laugh. But the Vagabond was there staring at him with Ryan’s eyes.

“Ryan,” Jon said finally. He glanced up. The Vagabond uncrossed his arms and straightened, but didn’t move away from the door. Jon rubbed his neck. It didn’t sting, but he could still feel the small cut. He didn’t know what to say, so he said, “You tried to kill me.”

“It was never my intent,” said the skull. “I was surprised. Hurting you is the last thing I want to do.”

How much did this all matter? How much was the truth?

“Why me?” Jon whispered.

“I don’t know.”

Jon shook his head and rested his forehead against his knees. The Vagabond made no noise, and Jon could almost forget he was there. He steadied his breathing in this relative seclusion. Just earlier that day he had felt like the luckiest guy in the city, and now it felt like his luck had completely reversed.

“Why me?” he asked again. He looked up again. “Out of a whole city, you chose me. Why?”

The Vagabond reached up and pulled his mask off. Ryan tossed his head back, raking his free hand through his hair to keep it off his forehead. Black paint was smeared around his eyes, making the pale blue pop. He held the mask limp at his side.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “It just happened. I flirted, you responded, and I got in too deep. A terrible coincidence. I know I was selfish, but I just… I never thought it would get this far.”

Jon dug his fingernails into his jeans. “Surely you didn’t think you could hide this from me forever.  Why did you lie to me? Why did you play me, manipulate me into—” He flinched.

“I didn’t lie,” Ryan said. “You never asked. It never came up.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ that I _assumed_ you were _normal_.”

Ryan closed the distance between them and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out to touch Jon’s cheek, but Jon jerked away. “I lied about my scars,” Ryan admitted. “But nothing else. I didn’t—I didn’t want this life to conflict.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Ryan went quiet for a moment. Jon wanted to kick him away, to get him out of his sight. He couldn’t stand the image of Ryan in the Vagabond’s blue and black jacket, Ryan with the Vagabond’s skull mask in his lap, black face paint smeared around his clear, blue eyes. It wasn’t fair! Jon had been starting to believe he had found the love of his life, and he turned out to be a cold-blooded murderer. How in the world did this happen?

Ryan reached into his pocket, and Jon tensed until he saw that it was a wad of tissues. Ryan started wiping at the paint around his eyes. It came off easily but thick, staining the white tissue with black.

“Everything has been real,” he said softly. “Everything I’ve felt for you—everything I’ve done for you. I never lied in my devotion to you. At the start, I didn’t think we’d last long enough for it to become a problem. I thought you’d tire of me, or something. Towards the end, I figured, _I_ probably…” His words choked off in such a way that drew ice across the back of Jon’s neck. This line of work hardly guaranteed long life, and Ryan was only getting older.

Ryan tossed his stained tissues to the ground and turned. Most of the black had been wiped away, leaving smudges that defined all the wrinkles and creases around his eyes. Jon yearned to comfort him, despite his better judgment. Ryan sagged as a man who knew he had lost and was merely awaiting the defeat. Jon saw his date in every curve and joint, saw the Vagabond in the mask and stained tissues, and saw Ryan in everything.

And, Jon reasoned, Ryan had done no harm to him—no threat of it beyond the show at the bank. In fact, there was a sort of safety at Ryan’s side, and he realized he had felt it the entire time. He knew Ryan would protect him even before he knew—and, moral judgments aside, there was something appealing of having one of the most dangerous men in Los Santos on his side. Maybe even the rest of the Fakes, too, depending on how they felt about him.

“I was happy,” Ryan said quietly. “When I was with you. Happier than I’ve been in a long while. I knew I didn’t deserve you, but I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry my selfishness has put you in this situation.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. _Why was he conflicted?_ He remembered the nights he spent with Ryan; he could still see it in the man in front of him. He cursed himself. He could feel it. He didn’t want to, but it was there. Ryan was being earnest, and already thought he’d lost everything with no hope of getting it back.

But Jon was not going to date a murderer.

“If you want to deserve me,” Jon said, his words slow and deliberate, “then I have a request.”

“Yes?”

His heart pounded; he _actually_ had the Vagabond under his thumb right now. Jon opened his eyes again and met Ryan’s. The clarity he used to see and appreciate was replaced by a dull fog. Ryan’s posture held no energy, not in the way he hunched as he sat. Jon sighed. He was in way too deep. _Life is fleeting._

“No more killing,” Jon said. “You won’t take another life.”

“And… the rest?” Ryan didn’t want to believe it. That much was clear in his hesitant speech, how he turned a bit towards Jon but seemed to fear moving closer. Jon almost didn’t believe it himself. It seemed Ryan was willing to do anything at the moment, if it just meant that Jon wouldn’t hate him.

“I don’t care.” He swallowed. “Well—I do, but—but it doesn’t really matter. Just—don’t kill cops. Don’t kill if you can help it. And don’t _ever_ lie to me.”

Ryan’s face broke into a grin, and if it wasn’t for the remnants of black paint around his eyes, Jon wouldn’t have been able to see the Vagabond in him at all. He let Ryan scoot closer and grab his hands from where they gripped his legs. The hands were hot on his. And Jon knew, from Ryan’s response, that he would do all Jon asked.

“As you wish.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the reason some of my other stories have been slow to update ORZ I've been trying to write like three stories at once, WHOOPS.


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